O Daughter, Where Hast Thou Been Since I Last Saw Thee?

Traveling Kids Segment

I promised myself that I would not shed a tear when I had to say goodbye. The worst was two years ago when I dropped you off in a littered, abandoned parking lot beneath a busy underpass in Worcester, Massachusetts. Everything was broken, rusted, devoid of life. It was just before sunset and I could not breathe. This was another trip when the heavy hand of dread pressed against my chest harder with each passing mile.

You looked at me apologetically and said it would be alright. Your partner was too busy fixing his pack to notice that I was dying in the front seat of my car. The dog was up for the next adventure, the next train ride, the next handful of food. Somehow I had to find a way to breathe and never do this again.

I couldn’t erase the vision of you reaching for me in your poufy, satin dress, with your new shiny patent leather shoes and perfect ringlets as I picked you up and carried you over a mud puddle. This earlier version of you is a memory, one that I must honor and not allow to haunt me.

The questions churned in my head like a sickening merry-go-round…what could I have done to prevent this? For the thousandth time I thought about keeping you as a prisoner.

I got out of the car and stood by weakly and watched you as the sun finally slipped behind some old, vacant factory buildings. I thought I might throw up. I hugged you so tightly that I’m certain we merged. I inhaled your scent, knowing that it would soon be replaced by road dirt and grime; stuff from boxcars. You held me longer than I expected. I had become accustomed to the definite need to separate, to figure out where you end and I begin. Woman, child, cellist, poet, dreamer, creative goddess, faerie… we share it all. I promised to see you as you and not an extension of me.

I let go. At least I think I did. But isn’t that somewhat impossible? I wanted to scream at you for allowing me to drown in fear. I wanted to scream at those who abandoned us, crossing generations. I wanted to scream at God for playing this trick on me. I thought that if I loved you hard enough, it would be okay in spite of our shared betrayals. Instead, I screamed at myself, inside of myself.

I dared to listen to Mozart on the way home, knowing that he would bring out more tears and help me to find an end to them. I thought that if I suffered intensely all at once that I would purge it and be done with it once and for all. It was just part of an illusion that I once constructed and have long forsaken.

After a three hour drive and emtpied of tears, I made the decision that I would never bring you to such a place again and I would never let you see me cry when you set forth on your next journey.

I know that you were surprised when after spending two weeks with me in Florida; I dropped you off at a highway exit in Tampa…you, your partner and the dog. This time I waved and smiled and honked the horn like I was leading the hometown 4th of July Parade. Your look of astonishment matched my own feeling of awe. I had finally risen to a level of acceptance and trusted God.

This was a significant lesson. Maryjane, how are you going to continue on this journey? Will you fall apart? Will you always think the worst? Or will you have faith, trust and practice unconditional love? Will you choose to be wise and grounded, setting an example? Or will you become weak and dispirited, not the strong woman you are and can be. I was awake. We would be okay. Better than that.

After I got on the highway the tears threatened, but more of a relief this time. I let a few escape but I decided that it was time to finally take this experience and give it to God.

You were better at keeping in touch, texting and calling on a more regular basis. I have become an expert at US Geography, running to the map every time there’s a shooting or a tornado striking near where you are living in a tent somewhere with your ever-changing band, waiting for the weather to clear so you can make a few bucks busking on the corner. I held my breath and texted you, telling you to find a safe place. You did. You assured me that you were on top of it. You were.

We spent time together last summer. Good time; meaningful time. We laughed and played music and cuddled and made promises to each other. I loved sitting with you on the bench by the river watching the red squirrels dash around in preparation for winter. I left you off at your partner’s house where I found myself comforting his mother and wiping away her tears, as both of her sons are traveling kids.

When we visited in New Orleans last winter, I trailed behind as you made your way down ‘your street’ in the French Quarter and everyone knew you by name. They knew you as the girl who not only played the banjo, but who also played Haydn and Bach and the rest of the boys, because you managed to scrounge up a cello. You didn’t want me to see where you lived, but you actually had a room in an apartment. I could exhale.

This time it was you who rode away, leaving me behind. I stood in the hotel parking lot and watched you ride away on your bicycle until you turned the corner and disappeared into the dirty, disheartened city still reeling in the shadows of Katrina.

It’s been a year since you’ve been home, since we sat on the front porch together wondering about the rustling sound in the woods and then dismissing it to praise the moon instead. Once you arrived in the Pacific Northwest, you started to have problems with your phone and I slipped into the mother’s imagination thing every time I tried to call and got the instant recording. Once again, I became a slave to my cell phone, taking it with me everywhere, checking for messages and missed calls. Then I remembered that you weren’t ever alone and that I had placed it in God’s hands. It helped.

After spending a great deal of time camping in the Redwood Forest, you had your cell phone fixed and you apologized for going off the radar. You told me that you would never be the same because of the redwoods. You sounded strong. I recognized you in your voice. I was reassured at the sense of you remembering who you were and from whence you came.

I pray for you every night, even though I know that God is with you. I ask that you are guided, protected, guarded and blessed. I stopped asking my father to watch over you quite some time ago. I no longer accept fear.

The excitement between us continued to build as we discussed your plans to take a Greyhound bus from San Francisco to home; the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I am counting the hours until midnight, when you will roll in. I have prepared your favorite foods, washed the flannel sheets with a hint of patchouli in the final rinse and hung them out on the line. Beatrix Bunny is plopped by the pillows.

I look forward to imprinting your essence and looking at you, brown eyes to brown eyes. A part of me longs to know of your journey; a part of me knows that it isn’t all for me to know.
Journal: Periwinkle

Freight Train Blues: Traveling Kids – Part VII

Freight Train Blues
Bob Dylan

I was born in Dixie in a boomer shed
Just a little shanty by the railroad track
Freight train was it taught me how to cry
The holler of the driver was my lullaby
I got the freight train blues
Oh Lord mama, I got them in the bottom of my rambling shoes
And when the whistle blows I gotta go baby, don't you know
Well, it looks like I'm never gonna lose the freight train blues.


Well, my daddy was a fireman and my mama-ha
She was the only daughter of an engineer
My sweetheart was a brakeman and it ain't no joke
Seems a waste to get a good man broke
I got the freight train blues
Oh Lord mama, I got them in the bottom of my rambling shoes
And when the whistle blows I gotta go mama, don't you know
Well, it looks like I'm never gonna lose the freight train blues.


Well, the only thing that makes me laugh again
Is a southbound whistle on a southbound train
Every place I wanna go I never can go
Because you know I got the freight train blues
Oh Lord mama, I got them in the bottom of my rambling shoes.

While Anna was reuniting with her Vermont friends at the Human Carnival and a large event – Gathering – I was learning about what she really meant by taking the train.  At first when she spoke to me on the telephone at the train station in Chicago, I imagined her sitting on a slightly cracked, worn leather seat watching the landscape as she rolled by. I remembered my own days traveling through Europe on the Euro rail. What a way to travel. I have always loved the romance of trains, in America I have a high regard for the Pullman cars and Buffalo china, which I collected over the years. Coffee tastes better in a thick diner china cup.

That whole idealistic image shattered when I heard from my older son that yes, Anna travels on trains, and no, she never purchases a ticket or sits on a passenger car. Up until that point, my father was off the hook, no bartering with God and I was down to a half of a 3 mg of melatonin to sleep, working towards sleeping on my own. The dosage shot back up to a full pill. Okay. She is hopping trains.

There was a little bit of fingernails left to bite, so I bit them all down thinking in awfulness that my hands looked like those of a nervous twelve-year-old. The thought of my daughter chasing after a train and hopping on brought me back to step one – the coping place. I imagined her be bopping around on crutches with one leg, or worse, I will spare you the details. What if there was some sort of disagreement or problem and she was thrown from the train or fell off in the middle of nowhere. Who would find her?

I fought the urge to pick up the phone that had become a permanent attachment, and call her. Instead, I buried myself in the book that I had been reading by Pema Chödrön. I was working hard on getting my life under my fingertips and eliminating the thoughts that were controlling and defining me. I could do this.

I waited until my next visit with Anna before discussing the train issue. As always, I eased into the conversation, enjoying the initial time that we would be spending together. We were sitting together sipping our morning coffee on the front porch when I asked her about the train. “Anna, when you take the train, you don’t buy a ticket and sit with the rest of the passengers, do you?”

She giggled and smirked the way she did when we both knew the answer. “No, not exactly.”

I gulped a huge mouthful of coffee. “Talk to me, Dottie.” Dottie is a nickname that I gave her when she was a baby, its short for daughter. I think I invented this in the middle of the night when she was a few months old and I was having one of those too tired to think straight, silly moments all to myself.

“Well.” She smiled. “We ride on grain cars.” She twirled her hair around her pinky.  "Grainers."

“Oh my God.” I thought that it would be as good a time as any to start smoking again. I thought about the disgusting taste of a cigarette, the possibility of passing out and opted for the fingernails.

“Mom. It’s not what you think.” She whined in a way indicating that we both knew it was exactly what I thought and more.

“Anna, you actually run after a train and jump on it? You risk life and limb for this?” I needed whiskey. That’s what I needed, plain and simple.

“No, it’s not like that at all. I never run and hop on a moving train.” She said it with such conviction, as if it were such a ludicrous statement. She set her coffee down so that she could really examine the curl that she had twisted around her finger.

“So you’re telling me that you hop on a parked train?” I stood up. “I’m getting more coffee; hold that thought.”

I went into the living room and cranked up the volume of the Grateful Dead satellite channel, poured myself another cup and returned to the porch. “Talk to me.”

I sat and watched the hummingbirds go back and forth above my head to the feeder while she explained her method of riding on trains. Apparently, she does not ever chase after a moving train, hop on it or take chances in that way. The first train that she took was from New Orleans heading north. She told me how beautiful it was on Easter morning when they got off a train in Alabama and there were wild cottontail rabbits in the field. A good sign, according to her still wonderful way of viewing certain things.

“What happens if you get caught?” The image of golden whiskey and ice clinking in a glass that had faded a few moments ago returned, only it was just the bottle this time.

“I haven’t gotten caught.” This time it was she who stood up to refill her cup.

“Not yet.” I called after her. “You haven’t gotten caught yet.” I did a power set of those breathing exercises that they teach you in childbirth class.

She returned and explained how it worked. She told me about the “bulls”- the guys who drive around in the yard in white SUV’s – they were the ones to avoid. She went on to say that the men who worked on the trains were actually helpful and showed them which cars would be more comfortable or better for their ride. She only knew of a few people who had told her about getting caught and the worst case scenario for them was to get booted off the train in the middle of nowhere. Yes, by law they could be prosecuted, but I am thinking that as long as they are not causing harm, or doing anything disruptive that they are generally left alone.

She filled me in on the logistics of train travel. Apparently there are maps and schedules in circulation for the purpose of hopping trains. Old road dogs, train bums, hobos or what have you, have gone to the trouble of making these available.

“I carry a compass.” She pulled another curl out of the mass and started in twirling. “I’m on top of my game; I don’t take chances and I assess all situations. When I arrive somewhere, the first thing I do is check my resources.”

“What do you do when you’re on the train?” I didn’t waver.

“I usually sleep.”

“What’s it like? I mean the train. Tell me everything.” I put my feet on the railing.

She told me about little cubbies and spaces to put their stuff. Which cars or grainers are better than others and why. She said that they bring a jar of peanut butter and bread and make sandwiches. According to her, the scenery has been beautiful. Sometimes it rained and it could be cold; another time one of her friends was very sick with a throat abscess.

“What if you have to pee?” I looked at her out of the corner of my eye.

She laughed. “You hold it until the next stop.”

I went through every possible scenario like an examiner making sure that all of her answers met my constantly changing standards. I covered things from what if you get to the station and the train is leaving and it’s the last train for the next 24 hours? To what if your friends hop on a moving train, would you do it too? My stern, not messing around, voice dropping an octave, self emerged. “You never ever drink on or around trains, right?”

She did a good job assuring me that she would never take any of those risks and that if she missed the train, she would wait.

We veered from our even keel. The seas were rough. We had both of our hands together on the rudder. We carried on in our new way of checks and balances, boundaries and having a right to know or not know. I wanted to scream at her and protect her at the same time. The vision of that little girl with apple blossoms in her French braids scolding our tiger cat, Chloe, haunted me; I kept it at a safe distance, embracing the new face of my daughter – the young woman – while quelling the fearful voice of my own inner child and embracing myself, the mother.
(To be continued).